


Hello and Welcome

by Solarcat



Series: My Universe Will Never Be the Same [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Arizona Coyotes | Phoenix Coyotes, Fluff, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:11:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarcat/pseuds/Solarcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver doesn’t realize there’s a problem with his words until he gets “välkommen” wrong on a spelling test when he’s about six.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello and Welcome

**Author's Note:**

> Coyotes fandom was in need of some fluff after all this trade craziness, so. Here you go, friends! <3

Oliver doesn’t realize there’s a problem with his words until he gets “välkommen” wrong on a spelling test when he’s about six. And even then he doesn’t really understand what it means, other than that his words are spelled wrong. _Hej, velkommen til laget!_ spills over his hipbone in swooping letters that Oliver instinctively likes. 

He’d been born with his words, which means his soulmate is already out there somewhere. And someday, they’re going to be on a team together. Oliver is looking forward to it, but he makes a mental note that when he finally meets his soulmate, someday, to make them say “sorry” for making him mess up on his spelling test. (He made himself memorize the proper spelling perfectly, so he can teach his soulmate, someday.)

~*~

“I think it’s Norwegian,” Robin says one day while they’re swimming, and Oliver’s trunks have slipped down far enough that his words are visible. 

“It’s not,” Oliver wrinkles his nose and glares. “They say _hei_ , not _hej_ , my mom said so.” 

“Maybe they’re trying to be nice, because you’re sad and alone in Norway,” Robin teases, and Oliver scowls at him. He would try to duck Robin in the lake, but they’re both lying out on the dock, slowly drying off in the sun. Linus and Erik are still in the water, but Oliver’s enjoying the warmth of the dock, and all knocking Robin back into the water would do is get him wet again, too.

“I’m never going to Norway anyway,” he declares, stretching his arms up over his head so he can rest his head on them instead of the wood of the dock. “I’m gonna stay here and play for TAIF with you guys.” 

“Until your Norwegian soulmate comes and steals you away,” Robin quips. Oliver kicks him.

~*~

When he starts playing for the Tre Kronor, representing his home country in international competition, it’s a blur of welcomes and hellos, but none of them exactly right. They’ll say, _Hej, Olie_ or _it’s good to have you,_ but never exactly his words.

Most of the team welcomes him when he moves to Leksand, too, but none of them say his words, either. It’s close, and sometimes Oliver’s heart races, but the very few who say his words say it in perfect Swedish that Oliver feels in his gut isn’t right. None of them react to anything he says, either, and after the first couple of days, he settles in. 

They’re all old enough, on his new team, that asking about each other’s words in the showers is a little bit rude, but he sees some of the raised eyebrows, and it makes him defensive on behalf of the soulmate he hasn’t met yet. So what, if their Swedish isn’t so good? They’re Oliver’s soulmate, and they’re perfect, whoever they are. Or at least, perfect for him, even if their Swedish isn’t. He glares at a few guys who look too long, until they look away.

Oliver’s not worried, anymore, about how he’ll meet his soulmate. There have been scouts watching him, talking to him sometimes. He can feel it in his bones, that he’s going to the NHL someday. Maybe soon. He’ll have a new team, then. Maybe several new teams, eventually; he doesn’t know. But he does know that his soulmate is waiting on _one_ of them.

~*~

He doesn’t worry about his words on Draft Day, because everyone speaks English, all the time, except the translator they have on-hand to help out when his limited English fails completely. 

Oliver manages not to fall on his face when he’s called up to the stage, only the sixth player picked, and he counts it a victory that he doesn’t throw up from the sheer nervous excitement and overwhelming joy. He’s _in the NHL_. Well, he’s been drafted, anyway, but high enough that he knows he’ll play. It’s tangled up with his fear of moving so far away from home—the Phoenix Coyotes are in Arizona, and he’d had to check a map to be sure of exactly where that was in the United States, because the country is bafflingly huge. 

He finds himself looking in the mirror more often, over the summer; tracing over the words on his hip with his fingertips. There’s no guarantee; it’s the NHL, and nothing’s guaranteed. He could be traded to a dozen teams, and not find his soulmate until the very last one. 

(He hopes that’s not what happens.)

~*~

Getting to camp is a blur of airports and English everywhere, and Oliver’s all by himself the way he wasn’t when he and his family came over for the Draft. Luckily one of his agents is there to meet him at the other side, even if he does speak English just like everyone else. Oliver’s been practicing, but it’s hard, and even harder to find the time when he’s been spending his days working to get into shape for the season.

The team is putting him in a hotel during camp, along with most of the other prospects, but instead of going to the hotel they head straight to the team’s practice facility. Oliver has no idea where it is, to be honest; the geography is totally new and strange. It’s _hot_ in Arizona, so the air conditioning in the car is turned up to full blast, making it chilly inside. The cold air is a bizarre contrast to the landscape of desert and cacti and palm trees outside the windows. There’s going to be buses and people to drive him, for a while, so he’s not worried about finding the rink again; he just watches the scenery as they drive past and doesn’t pay attention to the roads. 

The rink, once they get there, seems perched on the edge of nowhere at all—there’s a few buildings, and shops on the other side of the highway, but the practice facility itself looks out on the desert, the mountains, and clear blue sky. Oliver _loves_ it, for all that it’s strange and different, and lets the heat sink into his bones for a moment as he’s escorted from the car into the back entrance.

He meets most of the team’s staff in another blur of English, though luckily it’s all basics, _hello_ s and _we’re happy to have you_ s that he can answer with a smile and a nod and maybe a, “Yes, hello,” and not much more. Oliver breathes easier when they show him to a stall where he can pull on his gear; there are guys on the ice already, and even though he just got off a plane, they want him out there, at least to skate a bit. 

Oliver figures he’ll have to wait for a break in the drills that are being run, before being able to join in, but he’s surprised when one of the players breaks away from the drills with a wave at the others and a nod from the coaches, and comes to meet him at the boards, clicking the latch open with the butt of his stick. The practice uniforms are all the same, but his helmet says “89” and Oliver’s studied the Coyotes’ roster and prospects before coming here, knows that the bright blue eyes and warm smile that greet him belong to Mikkel Bødker, and he smiles back even though his stomach is full of nervous butterflies.

“Hey,” Bødker says, holding the door open so Oliver can step onto the ice, “Welcome to the team!” and Oliver nearly trips like a little kid on his first skates, when it registers. _Hej, velkommen til laget!_ , the vowels just slightly off, barely noticeable really, because Bødker’s Swedish is very good, but.

“Oh, it’s Danish,” Oliver realizes aloud, clipping off the end of the syllables as he snaps his mouth shut, eyes going wide. Bødker’s smile has disappeared, his mouth falling open so much that he has to fumble to rescue his mouthguard. It’s cute, Oliver thinks, and blushes, because what’s he even thinking, he doesn’t know for sure… Except he does. He knows because the look of shock on Bødker’s face matches his own.

They stand there staring at each other for a long moment, eyes locked, until Bødker’s slack-jawed look slowly morphs into a wide, wondering smile, and Oliver grins hopelessly back at him, not even needing to ask what Bødker’s words are, because Oliver just spoke them.

“It’s Oliver, right?” Bødker finally asks, tilting his head questioningly.

“Or Olie,” Oliver says, nodding. 

“Olie.” Bødker repeats, and if possible his grin gets even wider. “I’m Mikkel.” 

“I know,” Oliver says, feeling like an idiot even as he says it, but Bødker—Mikkel, he’s Oliver’s soulmate and his name is _Mikkel_ —just laughs fondly, and finally manages to latch the boards closed again.

Mikkel shoots a look at the rest of the guys, gathered now over by the bench where the supply of water and Gatorade waits, some of them looking curiously across the ice where the two of them haven’t moved. 

“After we’re done, let me take you out?” Mikkel suggests, something almost nervous lingering around his eyes even though there’s nothing Oliver would ever say other than yes.

“You’re paying,” he decides on, after a moment, and Mikkel barks out a laugh that makes Oliver feel warm all over.

“You didn’t get your paycheck yet?” Mikkel jokes, eyes glittering, and Oliver wants to kiss him right then, but. Later. _Later._

Oliver shakes his head, lets his grin turn sly as they turn together to make their way to their teammates. “You owe me. I messed up a spelling test because of you.” 

Mikkel laughs, delighted and genuine, and Oliver can’t wait to listen to it forever.

**Author's Note:**

> (For the purposes of this story we are ignoring all the ways Olie totally should have figured out it was Danish before then, okay? OKAY. <3 )
> 
>  **Language Note:** I based Oliver's words on how Mikkel types, in that he tends to mix Swedish and Danish where the two languages are very similar (it drives GoogleTranslate crazy!!). So the sentence is a mix of Swedish and Danish, and it's meant to be! :)  
>  [Thank you kindly to Shishli for pointing out that this note needed to be here! Oops. /o\ #AuthorFail]


End file.
